The Lion King: King of the Jungle
by TLKFan
Summary: There can only be one.
1. Mangiatori Uomo

The Lion King: King of the Jungle

Mangiatori Uomo

—

(Amici… ispirazione e disperata solitudine colpito come uno, e così, godono di The Lion King: King of the Jungle.)

—

Smoke and flame still consumed some hundreds of pounds of wood despite that the sun had risen. Despite that the sun had risen hours ago. Fire was the only defense against them and it only worked when it was used en masse.

That was why the bonfire had failed. A meager cookfire it was, surrounded by dancing singing clapping bodies. A guitar and worn tin trays were the only instruments they needed when their bellies were full and their minds at ease.

None of them had been prepared when they had come. The first cry was a strangled yelp: a child had been pounced on and was being dragged off into the bush.

Thinking the attacker had been alone, the villagers had lifted machetes and clubs and set upon her—and then her compatriots had come, all dozen or so of them, roaring their hunger into the darkness.

It was only by retreating into their homes that the villagers hadn't been wiped out. There there were spears, spears and swords and guns and even a few bullets. There were injuries—many of them—but the blood on the ground wasn't only human. They had hurt their foes badly, and without losing a single one of their number.

It was almost enough to make the more naive among them grin and share furtive smiles with each other. But the chief, a tattooed man with a stern face, had only shaken his head.

A coordinated attack like that? With force of numbers?

The only reason the night hadn't turned into a bloodbath, a feast for the attackers, was because of their fool who had given the game away and went fora target of opportunity without being bidden to. She had compromised the position and ruined the entire ambush. Next time, they wouldn't make the same mistake.

That was why he was there. His hat was leather and his pants and shirt canvas twill, the same off-tan color as the sand. He spoke the language of the locals with a raspy sneered accent, but they understood enough.

Don't worry, my friends. I'll leave soon, and when I return, it will be with the head of the king of the jungle in my hands. Because he isn't the true king of the jungle. I am.

Now he stood at the behest of a dirt path that led into the Savannah. Safety was behind him and danger before, but with his rifle in his hands and his machete at his hip, he feared nothing. He was the king of the jungle.


	2. L'orgoglio

The Lion King: King of the Jungle

L'orgoglio

—

He oversaw his people and his lands with drooping eyes, so parched that the masses of flies found no moisture among them. Still they swarmed, making him blink and eventually swat at his face with a tired lithe paw.

One of his children played with the tuft at the end of his tail. In happier days he might have admonished them with a playful growl, or perhaps indulged them in a wrestling match. Now all he had for the cub was a tired half-smile.

The party was still gone, of course. They'd left a day ago and might not return for a week or more. But return they would, and with food. Not the same kind of food that their race preferred, perhaps, but meat was meat in times like these.

A distant silhouette caught his eye. A phalanx—an attack? An invasion? No, it was the lionesses, the breadwinners of the pride. They had returned.

He rose and roared a greeting to them—but no triumphant shriek replied. And as they drew closer, he saw that… their paws were bare. The hunt had been a failure.

Wait. Wait. One two three four five six seven eight nine—no. Not nine. Eight. He turned to the party leader, the matriarch of the pride, his eyes demanding an explanation.

They hadn't killed her, it seemed. Not really. Her death hadn't been in battle, it had been after the battle, after one of the wounds they'd inflicted into her had finally festered until she had to lay down. The lead of the bullet and the way it scraped against her heart… before any of them could realize it, it had pierced her heart. She bled out without another word, before any of them could do anything.

Spending lives is sometimes necessary, son. You must never waste lives, but, as king of the jungle, you may be called upon to sacrifice that which is most precious to you. And that's not your life—that's the lives of your friends and lovers. You may have to sacrifice them.

A valuable lesson. A powerful one too, when it had been told to him so many years ago. But it had all been abstract, a distant echo of how things had once been. He had never truly thought that he'd see a lioness die, but now… now…

No. No. Stiffen up that upper lip, harden your heart and sharpen your teeth. Now step aside, Nala, my love, I'll be back for you and the kids soon. I'm going to find food myself. Food, or revenge, or both, I swear it on my ancestors. After all, I am the king of the jungle.


	3. La Morte

The Lion King: King of the Jungle

La Morte

—

Tall swaying grass, dry from a lack of rain. The dung of passing herds and those who followed them. The almost herbal sting of the ointment he'd put on a cut on his arm.

It was an occupational hazard. The world of men was soft and protected, but the world of nature was wild, untamed. He hadn't the slightest idea where he'd gotten the injury from. Nor did he care.

This was his country. Perhaps not the land of his ancestors, but the land of his forefathers, where the swaying grasses of the Savannah met the cloudless blue sky, silhouetted by jungles near and mountains far. Majestic, beautiful, and deadly if you didn't respect it like it deserved.

From his perch, a dozen feet up a leafless tree, he sighted on his surroundings through the scope of his rifle. The lions were active here—this was one of their hunting grounds—and they were close.

Perhaps they were in the jungles some kilometers to the north. Perhaps they were skulking through the grasses, preparing to ambush the next herd that passed through. Or perhaps they were creeping toward him, unblinking green eyes fixed on their next meal.

Paranoia demanded that he look behind him. Paranoia or good sense. There was nothing—good. His nerves calmed, he disembarked from the tree and began to move. They weren't hunting him, he reminded himself. He was hunting them.

The wind was on his side, too. He strode east, away from the setting sun, toward a far off area where grasses were short and trees were sparse by well-built. The perfect place for a pride to recline in the shade while maintaining their situational awareness. If they weren't hunting, that's where they would be. And if they were hunting, then he'd likely find them on the way.

The grasses between him and his destination were knee-high, no more. Plenty to hide a lion. There was no choice but to circumvent them and take the long way. If the pride _was_ there, waiting for him, he'd never know it until he was meters away. Too close to snap up his gun and take out more than one of them, and lions always hunted in packs.

Close to the trees. Close enough that his motion would be masked by the nexus of shade and sun. Quick enough to cover ground but not so quick that he would tire or make noise. And there—

There. There in the ground in front of him. A pawprint.

He knelt and took note of its size. No lioness had paws like this, this was the pawprint of their leader. And—he touched the soil within—it was fresh. Hours old, if that.

And… the wind had changed.

Without changing his posture, he looked around. Clear left, right, and front, that only left the back. He turned and shouldered his weapon—

Nothing. Good. But not for long.

Back to the trees? No, then he'd be a sitting duck. Into the grasses? No, that was even worse. So the only thing to do was to keep going, and to keep going faster, quieter, and more mysteriously than ever before. The lions… if they weren't stalking him actively, they knew where he was.

Back into the line of forests adjacent to the grasslands. Interweave yourself in the vines of the jungle and dart from tree to tree, then hold—then move again. All the while, watch, and listen, and prepare to fight for your life. Now—down. Down on your face.

A lioness. Not a hundred meters away, she sat on her haunches in an almost dog-like manner, head quirking this way and that. Clearly she felt no threat, no concern even. And she was alone.

He shouldered his rifle and drew a bead on her body. At that range, with that caliber, he could end her—but why? Giving away his position for one lioness? For all he knew, she could be a decoy, bait set out to lure him into making a mistake. So he held his fire. And his breath.

A rock dug into his knee. The setting sun scorched his exposed neck. He had to piss so he pissed his pants. And the whole while, the lioness simply sat there, looking around, occasionally fidgeting, more rarely pacing, but never leaving.

Sweat trickled down the side of his face. Sweat and a chain of ants who had come to drink it and sting at his cheek. Irrelevant, immaterial. Non-existent in his world.

Then an impact, not ten meters away. As slowly as he dared, he turned and all but locked eyes with the lion king.

Red maned, powerfully built, he was as regal as his bloodline and position suggested. Hard times had stripped the last ounce of fat from him, so every muscle lining his frame rippled when he walked.

A look left. A look right. An errant flick of his tail and he strode toward the lioness. Then they left together.

Wait. _Wait_ , god damn it, rise now and they'll see you. Okay, now you can stand. Now you can sight on them and watch them lope off to the cry of another lioness, a distant lioness.

No. Too quick. Run. But be careful. The only thing that could make lions run like that was danger, or food.

Damn—there they went, through a thicket of woods. The only way to follow them was to follow them in, so in he went with his rifle at the ready. Up and over the next rise was the congregation of them, gorging on a… on an elephant? That large, dark, smoking carcass—was it a hippo?

No. No—up the tree. Up the tree and sight with your rifle and—no. Not an elephant, not a hippo, not a carcass at all. It was a Jeep. And the lions' meal was…

He shut his eyes—no. Open them up, coward, and look at it. Watch them tear free limbs, crack open ribcages, fight over offal, lick up bloodstains. _That_ was why the villagers had called him, to stop that, to prevent that. And _that_ was the result of dawdling around and wasting time.

His face blank, he watched as the last eyeball was popped for nutritious thick fluid, the last shoelace slurped down. Movement under the Jeep—was a cub hiding?

His eyes widened the slightest fraction. Yes. Yes a cub was hiding, but it wasn't a lion cub. And when the lions noticed it, they ate it alive, while it stretched an arm out toward him.

—

(The next chapter is in progress. I appeal to you, readers, to convince me to prioritize its completion. Watch, favorite, and review is necessary, and let us see what happens in the forthcoming night.)


End file.
